


SuperLock: Crossroads

by SenoraKitty



Series: SuperLock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, Demons, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenoraKitty/pseuds/SenoraKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has a story to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SuperLock: Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this work came from this image: fav.me/d4k1mcv
> 
> The fic is unpolished at this point. I am NOT a writer! I cannot reiterate this enough.
> 
> Warnings are based on individual parts, not the series as a whole.

 Lestrade lead John down the wooden stairs to the cellar, leaving the others upstairs. As they walked into the room the D.I. noted a line of crates going along the side wall from the stairs. An area in the corner of the room was marked off with an intricate circle of red spray paint. He chuckled as he stepped into the circle to lean against the wall next to the crates. He had seen the same marking in abandoned flats and houses, and had always chalked it up to satanic vandals, or gangs. Now that he had met the Winchesters, the self-proclaimed demon hunters, it all started to make more sense. “I met a demon once,” he admitted, glancing over to the shorter man.

 

“Oh no, not you too,” John groaned. He sat on the crate next to Lestrade, and buried his face in his hands. He had hoped that he and Greg would go to the cellar to chat about normal things such as football or rugby. At that point he would have been fine discussing a case with the D.I.. He wanted to get away from all of the talk about demons, angels, and hunters. It really wasn't his area. He was a man of science and experience, not a man of superstition.

 

“Hell, believe me, I didn't want to believe in this crap either. Nobody does.” Lestrade chuckled as he fished in his coat pocket for his cigarettes. He looked at the packet as if remembering something. “At first I thought he was just some drunk bloke in a bar talking nonsense, you know?” plucking out a cigarette he lit it, taking a drag before exhaling in a long sigh. The gray cloud of smoke churned and curled in the air in front of them before disappearing around the wooden boards of the ceiling. “Then he says to me, “the kid's gonna die pretty soon...””

 

_Lestrade glanced over to the gentleman that spoke. He half expected the man to look like a bum from off the street. One of those 'the end is nigh' conspiracy theorist that try to chat you up with all sorts of wild stories. To his surprise what stood before him was anything but what he had expected. The man was a bit older then the D.I., his hair line was receded and thinned out. He might have been leaning a bit on the chubby side, but his well tailored suit hid any physical imperfections. He looked every bit the part of a business man or lawyer, and for a moment Lestrade wasn't so sure this man had said what he thought he heard. “Excuse me?”_

 

_The dark haired man leaned in, sizing up the D.I. with a knowing look. “Overdoes,” he clarified assuring Lestrade that he had indeed been speaking to him. “If you like I can fix that for ya, for a price.”_

 

_Lestrade looked around the bar for a moment wondering if this were some prank being pulled on him, or if anyone else was seeing and hearing this conversation. “You do know you're talking to a cop, right?”_

 

_“I know exactly who you are Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and I am well aware of the charge who is in your care. Well I know more about his habits then anything. Lets just say at the rate he is going he'll be dead in two days.”_

 

_“Uh-huh,” was all Greg could get out for a moment. He took another drink from his glass, “and just how is it you know all that?”_

 

_“Oh I have friends in low places.” He gave Lestrade an ear to ear grin that said he knew a lot more than he was letting on. “The name's Crowley,” he said offering his hand to the younger man. After a moment's realization that the D.I. wasn't going to shake his hand he drew it back and folded it under his other arm. Then he decided to switch tactics. “I am serious though, about the kid. He's been shooting up a lot more frequently. I'm used to dealing with this sort of thing so I thought I'd offer you my services.”_

 

_“If you mean rehab he won't-”_

 

_Crowley raised his hand to cut off the younger man. “No no, nothing like that,” he assured him. “I just make sure the boy lives, and that's it.”_

 

_Lestrade studied his drink for a moment, staring at his muddled reflection in the amber liquid. It was true that Sherlock was going out more often, and staying out for longer periods of time. However, the young man had always managed to keep in touch through his mobile. The whole ordeal however was starting to wear Lestrade thin. Taking care of Sherlock was becoming a full time job, and between his work and family, Greg found himself too tired to chase the younger man around London. “So what's the price?”_

 

_The smile was back on the dark man's face. His patience had paid off, and he knew that he would have the D.I. on board soon enough. “Ten years left to live and eternal damnation,” Crowley said, as if he were ordering dinner off a menu. His comment earning him a long wary look from the D.I.. The demon clicked his tongue and withdrew himself from the bar. “I'll give you twenty four hours to decide whether the kid lives or dies.”_

 

_Lestrade snickered, shaking his head, none of this making any sense. “Twenty four hours huh?” He called over his shoulder to the dark haired man, “and just how will I know where to find you?”_

 

_The demon whirled around dramatically, putting his whole upper body into an open armed shrug, “just meet me at the crossroads.” He gave the D.I. another knowing grin, and walked out of the bar._

 

_Now he was certain this was a joke. A crossroads demon? Talk about Sherlock overdosing? “Yeah right,” he mumbled into his pint before knocking it back for another swig. Someone at the yard was going to pay if he finds out whoever has been giving his personal information to perfect strangers._

 

_Later that night, after another row with Sherlock that caused the younger man to flee the house, Lestrade had a dream. It began the same way their argument had ended, with Sherlock slamming the door in the D.I.'s face. Then Lestrade began to see flashes of crime scene photos, each one a different angle or depth of a tall lanky body on a concrete floor. He recognized the clothing immediately as the same clothes Sherlock had been wearing when he left. One sleeve was rolled up, a rubber_ _tourniquet_ _tied off around a pale pasty white bicep. The rest of the arm was a sickeningly dark purple from lack of circulation. The spent, empty syringe still dangled from the crease in the elbow. Sherlock's stone cold face stared unblinkingly up at him, lips a grayish blue, his normally glacier coloured eyes now a dull lifeless gray._

 

_Suddenly Lestrade found himself sucked into the piercing depths of Sherlock's eyes. He watched in transfixed horror as Sherlock was slowly and meticulously torn to pieces in front of him. The young man's shrill cries of pain ringing in his ears as pale flesh was stripped down to muscle, bone, and bloody gore._

 

_He found himself trying to call out, scream, cry, close his eyes to what he was seeing, turn his face away from the look of Sherlock's face contorted in pain and terror while his body thrashed and riled in agony._

 

_Lestrade found himself thinking that he only wished for it to end, for Sherlock to be set free. That was when he saw him, the dark man that he had met at the bar. He seemed to materialize behind Sherlock in a dark cloud of smoke and embers. He stared at Lestrade with pitch black eyes, and that knowing grin plastered on his face. “This is just a taste of things to come,” the demon said as he reached down to Sherlock's bloody gaping chest. He cracked open the sternum ripping it apart, while Sherlock wailed in anguish. With wet snaps the demon broke apart each rib until the young man's vital organs were exposed. With the gentleness of a mother with a newborn he scooped out Sherlock's still beating heart, and held it out to Lestrade. The heart burst into flames, and Lestrade woke in a cold sweat, his whole body still as ridged as it had been in the dream._

 

_For the rest of the day all he could think about was the dream; the photos, the traumatic mutilation of the runaway's body, and how Sherlock's howls echoed through his memory. There had been no sign of the younger man, and Lestrade couldn't help but feel responsible for his absence. He began to regret the things he had said to Sherlock the night before._

 

_While the young man was an arrogant, and combative little prick most of the time, he was also a natural genius. Lestrade began to wonder what the world would be like if Sherlock were clean, and able to find a practical use for his talent. He was sure that the man could do anything he wanted if only he'd take the chance. For the time being he could only hope to find Sherlock alive. It was then that Lestrade realized that he'd give anything to see Sherlock as an upstanding citizen surrounded by family and friends. If only he could insure that the man stay alive long enough. It was then that he came to a decision with himself._

 

John shook his head, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. All of this talk of demonic intervention, and nightmares being too much for him. He knew that Greg had a long history with Sherlock, and that the D.I. had always tried looking out for the younger man, when he could, but this? “So you were going to sell your soul, to a demon, to save Sherlock's life?”

 

“No. I knew that saving his life wouldn't be enough...”

 

_“Alright, I'm here,” he called out to the surrounding wilderness after stepping out of his car. Slamming the door behind him he leaned against it waiting for something to happen. He had picked a crossroads on the outskirts of town in hopes that no one would spy on them. “Can't believe I'm bloody doing this,” he mumbled under his breath._

 

_“I take it you got my little message then.” Crowley's gravely voice crooned, and suddenly there he was standing on the other side of the street facing the D.I.. “I was beginning to think that you wouldn't show. After all, who gives up their soul for a junkie who's barely alive anyway?”_

 

_“He's a brilliant man, Crowley.” Lestrade stated as he lit his cigarette, shielding the flame of the lighter with his hand. Taking a slow drag he continued, “and if I'm very, very lucky I might even get to see him become a great one.”_

 

_“Whelp, I suppose you better make your ten years count.” The demon gave him a knowing smile. Snapping his fingers and rubbing his hands together, the dark haired man prepared to get down to business. “So how 'bout it? Ready to save the kid's life?”_

 

_“I'm afraid you're going to have to sweeten the pot a little before I say yes. Only ten years left, and my soul? Hardly seems fair for just staving off an O.D.” Lestrade watched Crowley's all knowing smile falter for a second, but then it was back full force. The demon wasn't backing down so he continued with his ultimatum. “Not only do you save him, but you see to it that he gets clean, and you make sure that he has someone to watch over him.”_

 

_Crowley appeared to think over the D.I.'s conditions for a moment. He didn't like having to alter his plans, but none of the detective's demands seemed unreasonable. They were just going to take a little more effort. In a confident air of superiority he held out his hand to Lestrade. “Okay, deal.”_

 

_Lestrade took the demon's hand and gave it a firm shake. As he looked into Crowley's eyes he watched them turn black like they had been in his dream. The shock of seeing it in real life caused him to gasp and draw back his hand. The all knowing smile was back on the demons face, and before he could look away the dark man had vanished from in front of him._

 

John stared at his clasped hands, letting the weight of Greg's story sink in. The Detective Inspector, his friend, had given up everything for Sherlock to return home safe that night. Lestrade had sold his soul to insure that the man lived, and became a better person. “And the overdose? What happened? I mean obviously he didn't die but...” He trailed off, hoping that his friend would understand what he was inquiring.

 

Lestrade studied his cigarette for a moment. He knew that Sherlock's drug use was a very touchy subject for the consulting detective, and he knew that he had probably already told John more than Sherlock would have liked. Still if this where to be a confession he'd rather it be told to the one person who knew Sherlock better than himself. “The lethal injection never happened. The needle broke before Sherlock was able to push the plunger. Then he threw a tantrum and broke the syringe.” He flicked his cigarette to the floor and turned to study the blond man's reaction.

 

John released a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He stared into the distance as his mind raced with this new revelation. So that was it, that was the moment everything began. He tried to think about what the world would have been like had he never met the consulting detective. What if Sherlock had never lived long enough to even meet Mike Stamford? Had he not stumbled upon his old uni friend that day in the park, and been introduced the eccentric man, who was now his best friend, there is no telling how long he would have allowed himself to live. He was so lost after returning to London; he had no job, no friends, no family that he was close to. His life was completely empty at that point. It all changed when he met the crass, belligerent, uncanny, genius, human hurricane known as Sherlock Holmes. All it took was a demon to break a flimsy tube of surgical steel at the right time.

 

“They need to know about this,” he thought out loud. The Winchester boys may seem odd to him, much in the same way their old man had been. They all had talked about the sorts of things John thought were just fairy tales and ghost stories. Perhaps there was some truth to what they said and if so... “Maybe these kids can help. I don't know how, but we'll think of something.” Yes, something, something had to be done. They couldn't just sit around silently, and wait for this demon to some day show up and drag Lestrade to hell. What would that do to the officers at the yard, to his friends and family, what would it do to Sherlock? Then it occurred to him, Sherlock never knew what Lestrade had done. He stared up at the silver haired D.I., determination tinging his voice. “You at least have to tell him.”

 

“I'm telling you.” Lestrade said calmly, meeting John's deep blue gaze.

 

John blinked, not quite understanding. “Why?”

 

“Because you have to be there for him.”

 

He shook his head, even more confused by that statement. “I don't understand...”

 

“I didn't get it either at first,” the detective admitted. ” Suddenly there was this doctor working with Sherlock. A solider invalidated from a gunshot wound in Afghanistan. What were the odds?” Lestrade took a cleansing breath, closing his eyes. A small grin tugged at his lips. ”Then I start to notice something, these little changes in him. After a while he started acting more like a normal human being.” He glanced down fondly on the blond haired man. “You did that to him, you were there for Sherlock in a way that no one else had been. I thought you'd be running by his side forever.”

 

Releasing another long sigh his features grew dark, and haunted. “Then he went and pulled that crazy stunt three years ago, letting us all think he was dead.” Lestrade folded his arms, remembering the failure he sensed when he received word of Sherlock's suicide. He couldn't help the bitterness that edged into his voice, “I almost thought what was the point of my sacrifice? But you were still there, and I couldn't just let you off yourself, or leave you alone. Eventually I figured I'd stick it out, and maybe when the demon came I'd find a way to make him pay. That was when the little bastard came back.” 

 

The two men shared a laugh. There was no question who Lestrade meant with his last statement.

 

Lestrade took a deep breath resting his head against the cool concrete wall. His eyes were distant as he stared off, thinking back on it all. The haunted look was back on his face when he spoke. “I made that deal ten years ago...”

 

John was still chuckling a bit before all signs of mirth suddenly drained from his face. His chest tightened when the cold realization of what Greg said struck him.

 

“And now it's time for me to collect.” Both men jumped at the gravely voice that came from the other corner of the room. “Good evening gentlemen.”

 

John spotted a dagger atop a crate on Lestrade's other side. His soldier's instincts kicked in and in a flash he threw himself between the demon and his friend, grabbing the knife. “You stay back,” he warned, an authoritative tone edging his voice. Digging his feet into the ground he took up a fighter's stance, baring the dagger so Crowley would heed his warning.

 

The dark haired man seemed unfazed by the armed doctor's warning. If anything the demon appeared more amused then afraid. “Good old Johnny boy, long time no see. Tough you probably don't even remember me.” He grinned, his dark brown eyes looking down his nose at the blond. 

 

“I've never seen you before in my life,” John hissed at the demon. That seemed to amuse Crowley even more, which only fueled John's growing rage.

 

“Here, let me give you a hint.” Crowley lifted his right hand, forming the shape of a gun with his fingers. His grin turning into a toothy smile as he aimed at John's shoulder. He jerked his hand in a shooting motion. “ _Bang!_ ”

 

Suddenly he was back in the desert, men running and yelling orders around him, then there was a muzzle flash in the distance. A phantom pain blossomed in John's left shoulder, as he stared into Crowley's laughing eyes. “You...- Don't you come any closer,” he growled.

 

Lestrade was confused by the exchange between his friend and the demon, but then it dawned on him. Crowley had been the one to insure John was shot in battle. The dark haired man had set everything up so that the solider and detective would meet. The shorter man's dangerous demand for the demon to stay away unnerved the D.I.. “John? John it's alright.”

 

“No it's not!” Despite his best effort, John couldn't keep the panic from entering his voice. he gripped the dagger tighter, trying to draw strength from the knowledge that he was armed. His eyes turned a darker shade of blue as he glowered at the demon in the other corner.

 

“You know I always did like you. So full of spirit.” Crowley's dark brown eyes roamed over the doctor's body in silent admiration. “How I'd love to get my hands on you. Unfortunately I have to wait in line. You see somebody else already has first dibs on you.”

 

A movement caught his eye and John stared, frozen in place by what he saw. He tried to move, tried to cry out, or warn Lestrade, but nothing came out. It was as if he were drowning in fear. 

 

Greg noticed the tremble in his friend's body, and reached out to place a questioning hand upon the other man's shoulder. “John?”

 

It happened in a blur, suddenly John was facing him, staring at him with wide black eyes, that were not his own. Sharp pain seared through his chest, and Lestrade looked down to see the dagger, John held, buried to the hilt between his ribs.

 

“John...” was all he managed to utter as blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth. His lips trembled as he tried to say more, but his strength was rapidly draining from his body. He could only stare at the possessed doctor with confused pleading eyes. Darkness edged his vision, and he felt himself falling. Before the inky blackness consumed him completely he could hear Sherlock calling out his name.

**Author's Note:**

> I worked so incredibly hard on this piece. The only thing that kept me going was how unique the idea was, and how I could tie things together. I might continue working on other parts, but for now this is what I have.


End file.
